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Volume One Books and the Hillsdale Annex, as they appeared in downtown Hillsdale, MI. I believe this shot was snapped just before the Annex sign came down for good, after Liss and I moved from Hillsdale County...closing the book on an era. I don&#39;t remember when that happened, exactly, and I don&#39;t know who shot this picture, either. Which fits in with our story, in a strange way. (Submitted Photo) MARK BUDD, THE ONE-MAN BAND <br />One of the many unique acts who passed through the Hillsdale Annex&#39;s doors, specializing in rockabilly and 50s-/60s-styled originals and covers. I played a couple of shows with him, and wrote about him, too: I remember him describing his style as a blending of Gene Vincent and Johnny Thunders, which made sense to me. He&#39;s still out there, still doing his thing: catch him when you can! He always delivers. (Photo By: Ralph Heibutzki) Bob and Carol were charter members of the Hillsdale County Coalition for Peace &amp; Justice, and longtime peace activists. Here, they&#39;re protesting with our group, but for years, they also set up at a corner of the Hillsdale County Courthouse, and protested on their own, as well -- rain or shine, they were always out there. Needless to say, they took a lot of heat in a town that supported the likes of far right Congressman Ron Paul, which made them heroes of ours. They&#39;re both gone now, but they were good friends, and always inspirational to be around. (Photo: Lisa D. Quinlan-Heibutzki) A sampling of the wares on display at &#34;Budgie&#39;s Nest,&#34; the multimedia music/art show that focused on Lisa&#39;s artworks -- that literally took over the walls of the Hillsdale Annex for six giddy weeks, from September 2 to October 20, 2006, and marked a fitting coda to our seven-year tenure there. Lisa relaxes for a moment during one of the two &#34;Budgie&#39;s Nest&#34; shows at the Hillsdale Annex, having just sold one of her paintings to our friend, a multimedia watercolor work, Carol Ball (left). I can&#39;t recall at which show I snapped this picture, but in a way, it doesn&#39;t matter -- they were both successful! (Photo By: Ralph Heibutzki) Lisa (left) stands with her friend, Christie Cook, to whom she&#39;d just sold another one of her works, this time at the second &#34;Budgie&#39;s Nest&#34; show -- I know it&#39;s from this one, because I have the newspaper clipping to prove it! (See the press releases in &#34;What They&#39;re Saying.”) One of many works that went to satisfied buyers, for a show that happened off any taste maker&#39;s radar -- which is how we set it up, and how we liked it. :-) (Photo By: Ralph Heibutzki) And so, we end, as we began: Richard raises a glass at a family outing, on his home turf, 2015. I found this one on his Facebook page -- because it fits the man. Always upbeat, always searching for a new angle on something, always looking forward. Hail, and farewell. (Courtesy Photo)
HEY. HEY. HERE COMES RICHARD: A TRIBUTE TO RICHARD WUNSCH (1940-2022)
May 7, 2023

HEY, HEY, HEY, HERE COMES RICHARD:
A FEW THOUGHTS TO CONSIDER
By Ralph Heibutzki, and Lisa D. Quinlan-Heibutzki

We start these recollections with these lyrics ringing in my head, from “Seasons Of Love,” in the musical, Rent: “Five hundred, twenty five thousand, six hundred minutes/Five hundred, twenty five thousand moments so dear/Five hundred, twenty five thousand, six hundred minutes/How do you measure, measure a year?”

Just how do you measure a year, anyway, as the song says? How do you measure a life? Let's just start from the beginning, and take it from there.

We first met Richard Wunsch in February of 1999, shortly after we moved from Chicago, to Hillsdale. As longtime book lovers, and collectors of all sorts of quirky subjects, you can imagine our delight that a store like Volume One Books existed.

Of course, it goes without saying that Richard, and his late partner and manager, Aimee England, were as distinctive as the store that they ran. However, they were among the first to make us feel welcome, and also, like kindred spirits, as the saying goes: the extensive collection of labor history-related books told you right away where Richard's sympathies lay. But our appreciation of him went beyond his political leanings.

The range of his life experience impressed both of us. From working on the factory floor, to driving a cab, and then, getting involved with the various radical happenings of the '60s and '70s – he'd done all that, as I'd learned, before opening his first used bookstore, The Wooden Spoon, in Ann Arbor. He definitely gave you the air of someone who'd seen things, and done things. But Richard didn't just talk the talk, he also walked the walk, which all his projects had in common – as Gandhi so eloquently stated, “Be the change you want to see.” A few examples will make the point.

Like any independent enterprise of its kind, Volume One also served as a focal point for all types of alternative thought, and activity. One of them, the Hillsdale County Coalition for Peace & Justice, soon became a focal point of Lisa's life and mine in 2004-06.

Our regular activities included weekly protests against the second Iraq War, at the Hillsdale County Courthouse, no small gesture in a town that largely supported it –  with all the usual superpatriotic fervor that accompanies such events. I often took heat for my involvement in such matters, to which I invariably responded, “These people are my friends, and nobody gets to choose them for me. End of discussion.”

One of my own fondest memories of that period came when Richard presented a resolution to the Hillsdale County Commissioner against the Iraq War. I wasn't a Coalition member yet, and I'd be writing a story that night, so I couldn't say anything publicly.

But I relished how he put the commissioners on the spot, when he asked them to take action on it. The excuses flew thick and first through the air: “We can't change what's happened.” “We can't offend our local veterans. We need to support them.” “Our constituents will wonder how we can go against a war that most of them support.” In the end, they settled for the last one, without bothering to take a vote: “It's the wrong forum. You need to take it to Congress.”

But Richard had made his point. He felt the effort had been worthwhile, if nothing else, to get people talking and thinking differently. That type of reasoning ran through all of Richard's projects – including his various runs for local and state office, typically, on the Green Party ticket. However those campaigns turned out, he felt that you had to start somewhere, and make some type of an effort. What they did with the ideas he presented was up to them.

Without a doubt, the Coalition's biggest public successes came with its Peace Festival, which it organized and put on from 2004-2010 in downtown Jonesville – a multimedia event that featured an impressive array of local music talent, and tables for various area political groups, with ample time set aside for protest and commentary. I myself played at the post-Festival party, the Afterglow, in 2004, and four subsequent festivals – from 2005-08.

My presence wound up being a total accident – I merely asked to play, and Richard let me do it, simple as that. I hadn't performed publicly in over a decade, weary of all the usual shenanigans and cooler-than-thou mind games that dog so much of the so-called music industry.

Without Richard's encouragement to drive me along, and fire me up, I'd probably still be confining my musical activities behind my proverbial “four walls,” at home. Getting to play guitar for causes that I supported made the opportunity to perform publicly again feel even better than it actually did.

I'll always remember the 2006 Festival most vividly, when Richard hit on the idea of filling Carl Fast Park with white crosses, to symbolize the deaths of America's military in the Afghan and Iraq wars. The memory of playing guitar next to that representation of our collective outrage and disgust will stay with me, as long as I live.

Around the same time frame, Richard took the next logical step, of expanding into an empty space next to Volume One, and opening the Hillsdale Annex, an alternative coffee house, hangout, and live music venue. Before long, Lisa and I were involved in every aspect of the operation, from making flyers, to writing press releases, and booking shows – some of which I played, and some I didn't, depending on whatever package I was putting together at the time.

The Annex didn't succeed, though not for lack of trying on anybody's part. Our inability to stick with the same schedule for more than two or three weeks had something to do with it. As I joked, at the time, “We're doing our best step to stay one step of the public, and succeeding a little bit too well.”

We also couldn't overcome the usual cultural conditioning of people seeing live music as little more than some kind of soundtrack to drink, and drink, and drink some more, while paying double digit ticket prices for the privilege.

But on those nights, when the Annex worked, it worked wonderfully, and made us want to keep fighting the good fight just a little bit longer. Thanks to Richard's Ann Arbor connections, we hosted shows by certified legends like the MC5's initial guiding light, John Sinclair, SRC guitarist Gary Quackenbush, and Ann Arbor's smart roots rock combo, the Cowcatchers.

We also developed a roster of local talent that, in my humble opinion, was as good as anybody – or anything – else out there, including the Meandering Minstrels, Dan Brown and Peter Cromwell, who stood out as gifted improvisers and commentators (via songs like, “I'm the government, and that's what I do”); Mark Budd, The One-Man Band; The Lone Rider, whose creative spin on '70s and '80s covers never ceased to inspire; Jim Dokurno; and Jesse Tanner, are just some of the names to spring to mind.

I should also mention the array of Branch County acts that I brought in, through my work at the Coldwater Daily Reporter – including Christian folk singer-songwriter, Ron Landers; local punk and metal favorites, Jackin' The Pulpit, and Kennedy Brain Matter; and roots-rock folk artists, like Jim Knisely, and Del Walling.

All of these acts, and many, many more, came through the doors of the Hillsdale Annex.  From a pure box office standpoint, some of these nights went more better than others, but none of them would ever have happened, without Richard's energy, and conviction, that Hillsdale County could support something more than the usual standard issue profit mongering watering hole.

Otherwise, I doubt any of us – Lisa, myself, and everyone else, who worked so hard on the Annex's behalf – would have gotten involved with the whole business. The artists always appreciated that quality about the Annex, too, even if they didn't always get the crowds they wanted. That quality remains the benchmark by which I measure similar endeavors, in choosing to get involved in them.

I should also mention the two multimedia art shows that bookended our final six months in Hillsdale – “Budgie's Nest: Unraveled,” which ran on September 2 and October 20, 2006. Lisa's artwork– ranging from Impressionist-style paintings, to cartoons, drawings, and doodles – served as the focal point for both events, which also featured an impressive array of free (mostly) vegetarian food, and live music by the usual suspects, myself included.

We made both events free, with a suggested donation, so that my former local employer, the Hillsdale Daily News, would actually have to run our press releases. They looked askance at anything with a price tag on it, claiming that publishing such ventures smacked of profiteering. though, funnily enough, it didn't stop them from running press releases for certain big name, big ticket acts, especially if they were conservative leaning country, and/or Christian, two genres that my former editor happily endorsed. Connect the dots, right? No matter; we got them in. 

I'll never forget the fallout from the first night, where Lisa sold $200 worth of art, which also helped to drive the sale of books, and various items of merchandise. Richard was ecstatic, as we all were – it felt good to vindicate the belief he instilled in all of us, that if you do something unlikely, and just give it the breathing that it needs to run, something great is bound to happen.

We all agreed, virtually on the spot, to repeat the experience, which seemed like a fitting exclamation point to our seven-year stay in Hillsdale County, and went off, with similar results. Naturally, we didn't see as much of Richard, once we'd moved, though I kept editing his music column for the Hillsdale Daily News through 2008, and made the most of my chance to get caught up, when I returned for the 2007-08 Peace Festivals – and when Richard came to Berrien County, where we live now, in 2010-11, for a couple of politically oriented road trips.

We always appreciated the chance to rekindle those old conections, because we never know how much time we have, though it's not always on our mind, of course. Recounting all of these memories? That's the easy part.

Now comes the hard part, where we have to say goodbye to one of the most inspirational and influential people we've had the pleasure of knowing – without whom we wouldn't have gotten to experience so many of the things that we did, all of which helped us to grow personally, as well as artistically.

This sounds like a cliché, but it's true – they really don't make people like Richard. You don't find them in the Yellow Pages, and they don't grow on trues. He was smart, funny, and principled, and we won't see his like so easily again.

But if, and when we do, we can safely say this – some residual aspect of his energy had something to do with it. That's all you can ask, these days, and it's the big bang we've never stopped looking for. Hail, and farewell. (5/22/22)

OBITUARY
RICHARD ELLIS WUNSCH, JR. (1940-2022)
WUNSCH, RICHARD ELLIS JR. Richard Ellis Wunsch Jr. age 81, of Brooklyn, formerly of Hillsdale, passed away on Friday, April 22, 2022, at his home. He was born on July 14, 1940, in Detroit to Richard and Jane (Stevenson) Wunsch. He married Donna Olejarczyk on September 3, 1966, and previously married Nada McClanahan, and they both survive. A celebration of life will be held on Sunday, May 22, with a location yet to be determined. Arrangements are entrusted to the VanHorn-Eagle Funeral Home in Hillsdale. Memorial contributions are suggested to environmental groups addressing climate change, or social and racial justice organizations.

Published by Ann Arbor News from Apr. 25 to Apr. 28, 2022.
From the author&#39;s personal collection (along with the other items pictured here). Just magnify it, if you want to actually read it -- should be just about manageable, I&#39;d think. ...here&#39;s the remainder of that article that provided the grist for my talk. It&#39;s been well-read and well-thumbed, as you can see! A tribute to Ronnie Lane, who&#39;d just recently passed at the time, dominates the cover of this Small Faces-oriented &#39;zine, one of the nicest and best-produced ones I&#39;ve ever run across. As it should be, considering the subject matter, right? This twofer album set emphasizes the Small Faces&#39; earlier poppier phase (&#34;Don&#39;t Burst My Bubble,&#34; &#34;Sha La La Lee,&#34; and so on), as Steve Marriott began coming into his own as a songwriter -- as the All Music Guide notes, there&#39;s nothing here you won&#39;t find on other compilations, but anyone looking for a fine document of one of the best bands of the period need to look no further.&#34; Makes sense to me. Here&#39;s a look at the tracklisting on the back cover of this 1984 double album compilation, for those who keep score of such matters!
HAPPINESS IS...A PACKET OF THREE (STEVE MARRIOTT REMEMBERED)
May 7, 2019

I blew my one and only chance to see Steve Marriott, although that's not the right verb, perhaps – I might need something a bit weightier, such as, “unable to deal with adverse conditions.” That invitation came in the fall or winter of 1990, when I was working and living abroad, as a clerk at the University of London – being a twentysomething at the time, I was experiencing whatever I could, packing in every sight imaginable during my six-month stay there.

Trouble was, once my cohorts explained the circumstances – apparently, he was playing a tiny pub, on an equally tiny island, somewhere in the Thames – I realized, once the logistics of that proposition sunk in, that I'd probably get there all right, but getting back might prove a little trickier (as in, you might have to hang out all night, till the next available form of bus or rail transport turned up).

Nowadays, I imagine, such a trip might not pose any problems at all. Two decades of creeping Americanization, including longer, more liberal hours for just about everything, will do that. But that wasn't the case back then, and as I'd begun spending my weekends in Camden Town – for the market, mainly, plus whatever hanging about I could get in – I regretfully declined. I figured I'd be back next year, at a more congenial time, when he'd be playing a more convenient venue.

Sadly, of course, that never happened – Marriott died in April 1991, after a tragic house fire that snuffed out his life at age 44. However, his legend has only grown since then, as I detail in my recent talk, “Happiness Is...A Packet Of Free,” which I gave at Berrien Unitarian Universalist Fellowship (St. Joseph, MI).

One thing became apparent right away when I scanned the Internet, looking for the usual fun facts and scraps of information to round out my talk: there's no getting around Marriott's influence, even today. It's easy to forget that fact, in light of all the articles and blogs that focus on the “Greek tragedy” part of his life – but, as the man himself said, “Yes, it's heartbreaking, but if you can laugh at your own tragedy, it's great. It don't matter.”

In a matter of minutes, I learned there's a Small Faces musical – “All Or Nothing,” what else would you call it? – making the rounds to massive acclaim, in London, and all over the UK; there's a film, “Midnight Of My Life,” which tackles Marriott's later life, the same period I focused on in my talk; and there's a daughter, Mollie, who's carrying on the tradition as a vocalist, and just released her highly-anticipated debut album. TRUTH IS A WOLF, last fall.

Does this sound like the fading footprints of a man who's often described as “long forgotten”? I think not. It's tempting to think how Marriott would have fared, had he lived to see the Britpop craze take the UK by storm, when the likes of Oasis and Paul Weller dropping his name, and covering his songs – I suspect he'd have had to reconsider his strategy, since the resulting higher profile might have enabled him to take life a bit easier, and stake out his own territory, on his own terms.

Of course, Steve's here to see any of it – let alone the induction that he finally earned, in 2012, into that ever-so-controversial entity, the Rock 'N' Roll Hall Of Fame – which makes such musings lend themselves to that ongoing parlor game of, “What if”? However, that's not the point, as I make clear in my talk, now featured in Spoken Word Tracks – I also managed to work in a few lines of my own poetic tribute, “I Remember Steve Marriott,” because it seemed to fit the occasion. Check out the evidence, and see how it strikes you.

Suffice to say, I'll always regret not going to that gig. But we still have the music, and plenty of it, at that – 12 hit singles by the Small Faces in Britain alone, plus two in America, and eight by Humble Pie (primarily in America, which they toured 22 times, as godfathers of the boogie movement). As the man himself might say, that's a fair week's work.

LINKS

All Or Nothing: The Mod Musical
http://www.allornothingmusical.com/

Midnight Of My Life:
http://midnightofmylife.com/

Sunday Express: Mollie Marriott Interview
https://www.express.co.uk/life-style/life/615210/Small-Faces-frontman-Steve-Marriott-daughter-Mollie-favourite-photograph

(Photo courtesy of &#34;Wild&#34; Bob Burgos) <br />  THE BOOK THAT LAUNCHED A QUEST... THE RECORD THAT CEMENTED A REPUTATION... STOP ME IF YOU'VE HEARD THIS PLATTER BEFORE... A fascinating ad for Radio Sutch, which marked His Lordship&#39;s (short-lived) bid for the pirate radio demographic...for the rest of the story, check out this link: http://www.offshoreechos.com/forts/radio_sutch.htm. <br /> &#34;As far as I could make out, his act depended largely on noise. Noise of a musical nature, but loud, raucous and ear-splitting. The thud of drums, twang of guitars and hooting of saxes mingled with Lord Sutch&#39;s blood-curdling screams and occasional lapses into song.&#34;  <br /> <br />Priceless words indeed from Richard Green, of Record Mirror, for the week ending May 8, 1965. If you blow up the photo, you&#39;ll be able to read the rest of his verdict on the man he spitefully christened &#34;The Prince Of Pain&#34;. Then again, as many of the folks quoted in Graham Sharpe&#39;s bio state....it&#39;s easy to forget how frightening the man was in his heyday. You be the judge! (Courtesy: Mike Stax&#39;s Facebook page)
ENTERTAINMENT OR DEATH: THE STRANGE CASE OF SCREAMING LORD SUTCH
Mar 27, 2016

I first got acquainted with Screaming Lord Sutch's music at the local public library, of all places, where I stumbled across HANDS OF JACK THE RIPPER (1972). As a budding record collector, the cover – featuring His Lordship in full cape and top hat, seemingly ready to spring from a dark corridor – offered ample incentive to check out the contents. 

So did the “Heavy Friends” whose names are plastered prominently on the cover (Ritchie Blackmore, Matthew Fisher, Carlo Little, Keith Moon and Noel Redding). The album is chiefly remembered for the controversy over its creation – allegedly, recorded live, without the participants' knowledge – though I honestly didn't give a damn about the implications.

I only had one question: did the contents rock? The answer was a resounding “yes,” with the title track – a sequel, of sorts, to Sutch's 1964 single, “Jack The Ripper” – making the strongest impression. Like most committed music fans, however, I knew little about the man behind the monster rock image until I picked up Graham Sharpe's biography, THE MAN WHO WAS LORD SUTCH (2005). 

As it turns out, the real story is every bit as compelling as the image, if not more so. The story of His Lordship's real life counterpart, David Sutch, is that of a quintessential outsider – one shaped by postwar poverty, and a drive to be heard – who also struggled with lifelong depression, as well as the natural doubts and vulnerabilities that any entertainer in his position confronts. 

However, you don't need to be a show business denizen to understand the issues that Sutch faced – which inspired me to give a presentation for my local depression support group. To gain a deeper understanding of the Sutch phenomenon, I reached out to Graham. His responses, in turn, formed the heart of a presentation that I gave to my local depression support group in October 2013. 

Since then, I've had the opportunity to further expand on my original presentation, with additional insights from longtime Savages drummer “Wild” Bob Burgos – whom I also thank, as well, for his contributions. Further observations are welcome: for now, just sit back, crank up one of the records discussed here – and reflect on Screaming Lord Sutch's life and times. 

ENTERTAINMENT OR DEATH: THE STRANGE CASE OF SCREAMING LORD SUTCH
In August, 1963, the strangest of characters gatecrashed the British political landscape – in William Shakespeare's hometown of Stratford-upon-Avon, no less, as the National Teenage Party candidate. However, even in a land that's long welcomed eccentrics of all stripes, the horror-themed rock 'n' roll singer who called himself Screaming Lord Sutch cut an unusual figure indeed.

Running on the slogan, “Vote for the ghoul – he's no fool,” Sutch called for abolishing dog licenses, more public toilets in Stratford, the introduction of commercial radio, and the right to vote at 18. “You can fight for your country at 18 and you can be hung,” Sutch proclaimed. “But when it comes to voting you are still a child.” (John Repsch: THE LEGENDARY JOE MEEK, pp. 210-211) 

In the end, Tory candidate Angus Maude swept to the House of Commons with 15,000 votes. Still, Sutch's tally (208) “was actually quite heartening in view of the fact that the teenagers whom he was representing did not yet have the vote,” notes Joe Meek's biographer, John Repsch. However, Sutch's last two proposals became law in five years – so, perhaps, the ghoul knew more than the public cared to admit. (Repsch: 211) 

Sutch's colorful run marked the first of nearly 40 similar campaigns, which – along with his live gigs, and records – gave new meaning to the word “flamboyant” – whether it meant leaping from a coffin to start the show, singing with a toilet seat around his neck, or setting various objects on fire...whatever it took to entertain, Lord Sutch would do. 

On June 16, 1999, this remarkable story ended, when Sutch's last partner, Yvonne Elwood, entered his London home, and found him – standing upright by the stairs, or so it appeared. “I thought he was playing a joke on me and wanted me to take a photograph of him – so I did,” she told Sutch's biographer, Graham Sharpe. “Then suddenly I realised what he'd done.” 

Investigators later determined that the 58-year-old Sutch had wound a child's jump rope around his neck, and ruled out foul play in his death. His survivors included one son, Tristan, from a previous relationship – who inherited an estate worth nearly 400,000 GBP (Great British Pounds). 

"THE PAIN OF IT ALL" 
David Edward Sutch isn't the first entertainer – nor, unfortunately, the last – to die by his own hand. Still, casual and committed fans alike couldn't resist asking: how could the man who always put forth such a boisterous image want to end his own life? 

As Sharpe observes in his biography, THE MAN WHO WAS SCREAMING LORD SUTCH (2005), one clue comes from a note – entitled “Depression” – that surfaced after his death. Whether the words are original is unclear, but the meaning is unmistakable: 

“Living with depression is the nearest thing to death. Even more than sleep. In sleep you are out cold. In depression you feel yourself dying and you can't do anything about it. The deep pain and torture you go through is hell. You are awake but you feel the pain of it all.” (Sharpe: 222-223) 

Dave Savage, who's continued performing a Sutch tribute act – in full top hat, and cloak – summarized the consensus this way: “It is tragic that a man like Dave, who had friends in just about every town, couldn't tell anyone how he really felt. A man who was surrounded by people with genuine love for him had to die alone.” (Sharpe: 223) 

What other inferences can be drawn about Sutch's mindset, and struggles? To get further insights, a brief look at his life is in order. 

"TOO NEAR THE KNUCKLE" 
Born November 10, 1940 in north London, Sutch's mother, Annie Emily Sutch, named her son after the Charles Dickens character, David Copperfield – by all accounts, an appropriate reflection of their lifestyle, which she supported as a cleaner, cook, shop assistant, and waitress.

Sutch's own working life was brief and unremarkable. After leaving school at 16, he lasted one day at a sheet metal factory, before he moved on to life as an plumber, mechanic's assistant, and window cleaner – which he liked, but not for conventional reasons, as Sharpe's book makes clear: “I could work the hours I wanted, and, if it was freezing cold or raining, I could stay in bed. The work gave me the freedom to be myself, let my hair grow long and practise songs as I went on my rounds.” (Sharpe: pg. 27) 

By the late 1950s, Sutch begun performing live, and – between 1961 and 1964 – burst onto the British Beat scene with several uniquely unhinged singles – “Till The Following Night,” “Jack The Ripper,” “She's Fallen In Love With A Monster Man,” and “Dracula's Daughter” – that didn't bother the charts, but cemented the horror-themed image that kept him in the public eye for decades. 

Even so, when most of his peers made do with 20 GPB (Great British Pounds) per week from their managers, Sutch could earn 65 GBP per night as one of the era's top draws. (Sharpe: 58) He and his merry men dressed as cavemen, monks, or Roman gladiators – when they weren't fooling with fake cadavers, knives, and skulls... or plastic hearts and lungs that they'd chuck into the crowd. If that didn't work, Sutch might start throwing the real thing...in this case, pigs' heads and hearts. 

Getting banned helped spread the word, too, as Sutch discovered with his first single, “Till The Following Night” – which featured a creaking coffin lid, shrieks and screams that his producer, Joe Meek, gleefully recycled from a previous record by the Moontrekkers: “Night Of The Vampire.” 

Alas, “Night Of The Vampire” was banned by the BBC as “unsuitable for people of a nervous disposition” – so,“Till The Following Night” didn't escape a similar fate. Nor did “Jack The Ripper” fare better, even in a less politically incorrect era – in 1988, popular outcry apparently persuaded RCA/Ariola to cancel a remake of the song that Sutch had planned to release 100 years after the murders. (Sharpe: 57) 

However, Sutch remained the man to beat live, as guitarist Cliff Bennett told Sharpe: “It is easy to forget how dramatic his act was in those days. When he came out of his coffin, makeup on, long hair flying, he frightened the life out of the audience.” (Sharpe: 40) 

As Graham Sharpe informed me, in our 9/4/13 email chat, he considers “Till The Following Night” Sutch's strongest vocal performance, and one that “deserved to be a hit,” while “'Jack The Ripper' was too near the knuckle for its day,” he advised. “A couple of years later, and a 'Ready, Steady, Go' appearance might have propelled it onto the charts.” 

“I'M PHONING THE PRESS" 
It was during this period that Sharpe got to know Sutch as a rookie reporter for his local paper. As he recalled, he “always found him a fascinating and likeable if slightly naïve person, always keen to please, driven by a desire to be noticed but in some ways an innocent abroad.” 

At times, this lust for attention got physically hazardous, as bandmate Paul Nicholas discovered during a 1974 London gig – when his employer leaped into the audience to beat up a heckler. However, the crowd took exception to these maneuvers – and responded by chasing the band out of the venue. 

“I was halfway down the road with Dave and he was in a telephone box,” Nicholas recalled, in Sharpe's book. “I said, 'Dave, what are you doing?', and he said, 'I'm phoning the press.' I said, 'They're coming down the road.' 'Coward.'” (Sharpe: 53) 

In 1983, Sutch reaped an unexpected second act in life by founding the Official Monster Raving Loony Party. As the name suggests, its positions – giving heated toilets seats to pensioners, for example, or instituting a two-day workweek, with a five-day weekend – weren't calculated to win massive votes, but served two main purposes: offer a vehicle to make fun of British politics, and keep Sutch's name alive.  

I asked Sharpe if these endeavors held Sutch back from being taken seriously by the public that he never stopped courting. He replied:  “It is very easy to be pigeon-holed by the media, but almost impossible to change that perception. The political niche he developed allowed him two bites at the celebrity cherry and he couldn't resist its allure with the potential, if illusory, for an element of serious attention. He didn't have the self-discipline to escape the stereotyping he was being seduced into.” 

Even so, the Loony Party – which continues today – chalked up some notable wins. Sutch's proudest alternative political moment came in 1990, when – in yet another local election – he garnered more votes than the candidate of the Continuing Social Decmoratic Party, led by David Owen, former Foreign Secretary. The SDP promptly dissolved within days. 

Small wonder, then, that Sutch could roll out such campaign slogans like, “Vote for insanity – you know it makes sense.” When Margaret Thatcher was forced to resign from office in 1990, Sutch – who'd run against the so-called “Iron Lady” in her own district of Finchley – wrote, in a letter to The Daily Telegraph: “Thatcherism may come and go, but Loonyism – which represents the true spirit of the British people – will go on forever.” (Sharpe: 135) 

"CHASING SOMETHING HE COULD NOT CATCH" 
Sutch's bandwagon seemed fated to scream on forever, but some cracks were beginning to appear behind his perennially sunny public exterior. As Sharpe recounts, Sutch's earning power stayed steady, but hardly lucrative – recording 23,320 GBP in performance fees between November 1993 and January 1995. (Sharpe: 159) 

In May 1995, however, His Lordship faced a major financial crisis, triggered by a home that he'd bought in the seaside town of Hastings – but couldn't afford. Unfortunately, Sutch's collecting mania literally knew no bounds. as his previous partners, Thann Rendessy, and Giselle Mehennet, quickly discovered. 

For starters, Sutch filled his home with Thann – then, his mother's property, including a shed, and a garage – from floor to ceiling, with whatever items that he bought on impulse, picked up off the road, or took home from friends. “He couldn't get rid of stuff – he just couldn't do it,” Thann told Sharpe. “He kept every bill, every electric bill, phone bill – from the fifties onwards. He would not even throw away a piece of paper – he would just put 'em in a box.” (Sharpe: 101) 

Suffice to say, tossing anything was never on the agenda, though Thann felt that it was no environment for a child – which is why she took Tristan to America, in 1977. However, Sutch did have to address his housing situation – when Barclays sued for 194,000 GBP, including a 120,000 GBP loan for the Hastings property, one of five that he owned by this point. 

Eventually, both sides settled, reducing His Lordship's debts to a manageable level – though, as promoter Paul Barrett told Sharpe, “I think he realised that now he'd never catch up – he didn't have another thirty years in which to start over – he was chasing something he could not catch.” (Sharpe: 162) 

When I asked Sharpe how these behaviors fit into his understanding of the man, he responded: “It is amazing that extreme 'hoarding' has only recently been acknowledged as a serious problem. Today he could have been helped to deal with it, although he might well have preferred to appear in a Channel 5 TV show treating it as something of a joke.”

"ANNIE EMILY SUTCH LIVES ON"  On April 30, 1997, Sutch's world tumbled down with his mother's death at 81. This relationship is the object of much debate, although both Thann – and Giselle, for that matter – maintain they didn't feel welcome around her.  

Sharpe suspects that both women had ample grounds for their feelings: “There is little doubt that David's mother did not ever want him to 'leave' her. She actively discouraged his relationships with girlfriends. As he'd had no real male role model he probably thought this was normal. I have never, though, been able to get my head around him wanting to be buried with her, as he is.” (For an alternate viewpoint, see Bob Burgos's comments below.) 

As many of Sutch's associates note, it's no accident that he took his own life so soon after losing his mother – yet, in his final live performances, Sutch began sporting a button that read, “Annie Emily Sutch Lives On,” as if to suggest that he wasn't ready to let go just yet. And, while Sutch hanged himself in his mother's home, he'd never visited her grave, nor bought a headstone for it. (Sharpe: 181) 

Opinions remain equally divided on his mental state. On one hand, an agent who'd booked him some lucrative TV ad work maintains that he'd phone for lengthy chats after his mother's death, and didn't seem visibly depressed (Sharpe: 199).

The musicians who backed him for a Raving Loony Party celebration on April Fool's Day, 1999, in London, noticed a far less animated Sutch, as lead guitarist Terry Clemson explains: “He used none of his usual props and changed his act around. In the middle of 'Jack The Ripper' he went off on a tangent – it seemed as though his heart wasn't really in it and he had something on his mind.” (Sharpe: 200) 

Fellow '60s traveler Jess Conrad is even more blunt, saying, “His work was tailing off and much of what he was getting was absolute crap. He couldn't even get on the Sixties revival weekends.” (Sharpe: 200) As Sharpe points out, Sutch's headstone bears his real name – not that of his public alter ego. 

“.,.THEN MONEY IT IS" 
It's difficult to analyze what ran through Sutch's mind during this final, most difficult period of his life, as he rarely acknowledged his condition publicly – though he'd put on several medications, including Lithium, and Prozac, as recently as May.  Then and now, however, rock's fiercely competitive fraternity has never been kind to mental illness, as these lines from Frank Zappa's 1981 song, “Suicide Chump,” suggest: "Go ahead on 'n get it over with then, find you a bridge and take a jump/Just make sure you do it right the first time, 'cause nothin's worse than a Suicide Chump".

Or, ponder this wisdom from Ted Nugent, on the suicide of Nirvana's Kurt Cobain: "I didn't like him, I'm glad he's dead. And the only way that girl, Kirk Cobain's daughter (Frances Bean, who was still an infant), will have a normal childhood is when that worthless, addicted slut of a mother (Courtney Love) dies, and she'll be given to parents that give a damn.”  

Given these attitudes, does it makes sense that – as Sutch's driver recalls – his boss would visit specialists in the middle of the night, because he didn't want the tabloids getting wind of his visits? Do these behaviors reflect a case of “insanity making sense,” or a question of protective coloration? You decide. 

Not for nothing did Sharpe tell me: “Almost everyone who knew him thinks they may have been able to talk him out of it given the chance. They're well meaning but mistaken.”

Although he “doesn't feel qualified to pontificate on depression,” Sharpe cites one other factor as worthy of attention: “I grew up in much the same generation, when depression was seen as something almost to be ashamed of, and the circles in which he moved did not recognise the existence of such problems. Whether he could ever articulate his feelings is a moot point but he was on medication so must have known all was not well.” 

Indeed, through all these varying accounts and recollections of his life, Sutch comes across as an ambivalent, conflicted man – a quality that he recognized in this notebook entry, found after his death: “You may think money will give you the chance of freedom, but it does not. But if I had to choose money or no money, then money it is.” 

So what kind of footprint did Sutch, the man, leave behind? Well, there's the outrageous persona who liberated the stage – a full decade before the likes of Alice Cooper and Iggy Pop grabbed most of the credit for doing likewise, in most of the official rock history books. Songs like “Jack The Ripper” have gained an unexpected second life, through covers by well-known current bands, like the White Stripes. 

There's Sutch, the bandleader, whose ever-changing cast of lineups served as a training ground for 40-plus musicians – who, fittingly, get a chapter to themselves in Sharpe's book. Guitarist Ritchie Blackmore (Deep Purple), keyboardist Matthew Fisher (Procol Harum), session pianist Nicky Hopkins (Beatles, Rolling Stones) and bassist Nick Simper (also of Deep Purple) are just some of the bigger names who first called themselves Savages. 

And, finally, there's the impression that stuck longest with musicians like the Lurkers' drummer, Pete Haynes – known to the world as Manic Essco – who shared a bill with Sutch in the punk era. During my 6/7/10 interview with him, Haynes's recollections of their encounter were fresh, and vivid, nearly 40 years later: 

“We came off, and he said, "Is that it?" I said, "Yeah." And he said, "No, no, you've got to do longer [sets] than that." He spoke to me like a kindly uncle, like a kid with a learning disability, or something. I said, "I'm tired!" And he said, "You can't be tired, you're a young bloke." I said, "I'm knackered." He said, "No, no, you've got to go on again, you've got to do it again."  “So we had a bit of a chat. We went up there again, and I think we did it [the set] about a minute quicker! And he just gave up. But, I tell you, he was one of the best people we played with. He was a real friendly bloke, and I suppose he knew that we were very green. And he let us use the gear, wished us the best of luck, had a pint with me afterwards. I thought he was a good bloke, but we didn't meet many people like that again.” 

These recollections have fueled the recollections of countless others, such as author and musicians Alan Clayson, whose song, “The Last Show On Earth,” offers as remarkable tribute as any to the top-hatted, leopardskin-coated man who stalked many a stage for decades: 

“David, oh David, hang onto that daydream. 
Hang on to that daydream, if it meant so much 
That centuries fade, and some smile and remember 
The man who was Screaming Lord Sutch.” 


CHATS WITH “WILD” BOB BURGOS (11/23+29/13) 
As Graham Sharpe's book indicates, some 40 different musicians passed through the ranks of the Savages, the primary name that Sutch bestowed on his backing musicians. Among the longer-serving members is drummer "Wild" Bob Burgos ("The Tattooed Sledgehammer Of Rock 'N' Roll"), who originally met Sutch during the mid-1970s. 

When Carlo Little left in 1979, Bob answered his call to duty as a Savage -- and wound up staying with Sutch "for the best part of 23 years and wouldn't change any of it," as he advises, in his 11/23/13 email. "He was one of the kindest people I have ever met and a true gentleman underneath his all crazy costumes." 

Like many of the key players in Sutch's life, Bob's memories of him remain vivid after his 1999 passing. "Now that he's passed away it leaves me with a lot of sadness, but also a lot of joy when I think of all the great times we had touring all over Europe together,..He was a very special person to so many, and I believe that you will never see the likes of him again in any shape or form." 

With those sentiments in mind, Bob took a break from a recent round of studio work to share his insights about the man who called himself Lord Sutch. 

CHAIRMAN RALPH (CR): As you know, the '60s was a period of extremes -- you had commercial pop ("Mrs. Brown, You've Got A Lovely Daughter") coexisting with the gutsier likes of "Can't Explain," for example. Why didn't Sutch's records of that era find their niche, as well? He clearly hoped for similar success, so why didn't he get it?

"WILD" BOB BURGOS (WBB): As you already know the '60s was a crazy time and I believe that David,...Or Screaming Lord Sutch & The Savages...was just too outrageous with his horror songs at that time to succeed in getting into the pop charts. If he sung ballads or pretty songs, then maybe he might of had a chart hit, but he was very successful on all his live shows,...In fact he was more successful than most other bands around at that time cause he was a true entertainer, and the many people that went to see him on his theatrical shows were usually thrilled or scared with all the skullheads, coffin, masks, choppers, swords, fire and blood curdling screams etc, etc,...But this was never chart topping material for the typical public music fan,...But he was definitely successful throughout his career in so many other ways. 

CR: Of course, the relationship between Sutch and his mother, Annie, gets a lot of discussion in Graham's book -- people seem divided on whether the dynamic between them was healthy, or unhealthy. Where do you come down on the issue? 

WBB: Yes, David loved his mother very much,...Annie was a lovely lady and I knew her well. 

She was a devoted mother and was always there for him, they were so very close! 

When girl friends let him down in any way, David always turned back to his old mum who never let him down, and this infuriated his girl friends,...It was a kind-of marriage in itself as their bond together was very strong that I thought was a lovely thing, and when Annie passed away David fell apart because she was the only true love in his life. 

Annie was always there for David,...They were soul mates, and when she had passed he went down hill and never recovered...They were the perfect match in so many ways.

CR: As you know, there's also a lot of debate on whether Sutch suffered from clinical depression, a problem he rarely acknowledged publicly -- what held him back from getting professional help? 

WBB: It was depression and stress that took David away from us and there was nothing he could do except live with it, 'cause I believe that if the public found out, his whole monster/fun attitudes and stage acts would be looked at in a different way,...It must have been very hard for him to cope at times now that it has all come to light. 

CR: As Tony Dangerfield states of Sutch's suicide:: "...what he did was meant -- it wasn't a cry for help." Do you share this belief, or was there anything that could have prevented him from going down that road? 

WBB: I think Tony Dangerfield was right when he said that it 'wasn't a cry for help',...David really couldn't cope with life in the fast lane anymore, and couldn't face everybody knowing his faults and problems 'cause everyone looked at him as a true leader and a strong character, but inside he was very vulnerable. 

CR: Sutch's lifelong political tomfoolery is another interesting aspect of his personality -- coming long before today's media era, where third party candidates are practically part of the political furniture. Did you see them as serious ventures, or simply another outlet, given his lack of chart success? 

WBB: David's political beliefs were quite normal to many people in the UK, but he took it too far so as to gather popularity with his Loony Party,...I don't think it was anything to do with his lack of chart success, but more to be in the public eye and having fans, followers and of course many friends. 

CR: Many people tend to tag Lord Sutch as a "novelty horror rocker," and call it a day, but I think there was more going on there...what made him such a distinctive live performer (especially compared to the other legends that you've worked with, like Chuck Berry, for instance)? What's your favorite memory of playing live with him? 

WBB: David grew up in the world of the very early horror movies,...He loved them, and I believe he incorporated all his childhood thoughts and dreams into his music, stage shows and Loony party that would make him different from anyone else, and it worked! 

I remember back in the late '70s when we were just about to go on tour around Britain,...His son Tristian was about 10 years old at that time, and my Mother was to look after him whilst we were away, and just before we went David gave him a big box of toy Monsters and plastic Creepy crawlies to play with, that I thought very strange at the time but also very funny. 

He really was a true Rocker and also to many in Britain as being the king of horror, and I believe that he was too, but again he might have taken it a little too far sometimes. 

His distinctive stage act was out of this world with blood, chopped of heads axes fire and many other crazy murderous things always being acted on stage that always packed out every club we played at. To name my favourite memory with him is very difficult,...Just too many to mention (Editor's Note: see link below for one that I have found...)! 

CR: What's your favorite record of Sutch's -- one that you performed on, and one that you didn't? 

WBB: One of my favourite songs that I played drums on with him is: "Scream And Scream," and two of his tracks that I didn't perform on that I liked were: "All Black and Hairy" & "Monster in Black Tights",...Both were wonderful tracks! 

CR: As the book mentions, you dedicated an album to Sutch -- where did the inspiration come from, and how do you look back on it now? 

WBB: David was like a brother to me, he was one of the family and a wonderful person, so when he passed away I wanted to dedicate my latest album to him,...In fact, I have dedicated two or three albums to him over the years 'cause he was a very special person to me and always shall be. 

I've always been inspired by David and his music,...There has always been something that united us both together from those early days gone by, and I've always believed that we spoke the same language so to speak,...Ha,ha,ha!! He once dedicated his album ROCK & HORROR to me, and that really knocked me out at the time when that record was released back in 1982, and it still does today,...It meant a lot to me cause I knew he meant it !!!! 

CR: A more general question, that I'm sure you uniquely positioned to answer, from your experiences with Matchbox: it seems that interest in the '50s and '60s has never been stronger. What makes people keeping coming back to that era, and artists like Sutch? 

WBB: The interest for artists like Screaming Lord Sutch has never gone away 'cause he has always been a household name and is part of the English pop heritage, and being an outrageous character too with his Loony Party, has always kept him in the public eye. 

The early '50s and '60s in the UK has always had a strong following,...More so than in the USA.

In Europe there are many organisations, clubs that cater for early Rock 'n' Roll music and is a lifestyle for so many Rockers and Teddy Boys, etc., etc.!! 

The music back in those halcyon days was truly wonderful compered to today's scene and lifestyle and David Sutch was part of those glorious times that the Rockers still remember and want to keep alive. 

CR: We're almost 15 years into a world that's gone without David Sutch's presence. What kind of a legacy did he leave behind, in your opinion?

WBB: My legacy, my thoughts and my last words concerning David is: The last paragraph that I wrote in my last email to you....  His name is David, Lord David Sutch, and he formed the Monster Raving Loony Party,...The most popular political fun party ever known in the UK,...This claim to fame alone would be enough and quite enviable. But David is far more than the team leader for the loonies. It is safe to say that hardly a day goes by when each of us is not exposed to, in some form or other...The genius of Screaming Lord Sutch. 

LINK-A_RAMA (Just paste into your browser, and let 'er rip!)  SCREAMING LORD SUTCH ("Loonabilly Rock 'N' Roll") http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XbGLznvSsyY

SCREAMING LORD SUTCH ("Scream And Scream"): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h8hzIxpSqvo 

"THE SHOW MUST GO ON" (HELSINKI, FINLAND, 1988) http://thebookofbands2.blogspot.com/2010/09/next_3069.html

THE ALBUM THAT INSPIRED ME: "SPRINGTIME IN AMSTERDAM" (1990) One thing that immediately separates Amsterdam from its European metro peers are street murals like these (above), the likes of which I haven&#39;t encountered before, or since. <br /> <br /> This is basically the right half of the elaborate street mural seen in the previous photo. <br /> <br /> I could have chosen a few more examples from my archives, but figured this photo would suffice to show the hip-hop scene&#39;s reach around Amsterdam. <br /> <br /> I finally decided to run some of the phrases in this photo through Google Translator, just to see what the fuss was all about -- starting with the top phrase, &#34;Justitie pakt fraude&#34; (&#34;Justice Tackles Fraud&#34;). Here&#39;s how the other key phrases in this photo came out: &#34;Leutscher in de bak!&#34; (&#34;Leutscher in the tank!&#34; -- jail, presumably), &#34;Geen Geleutscher mei onze panden&#34; (&#34;No more Leutscher on the premises&#34;), and -- my favorite: &#34;Wij Werken niet voor oplichters&#34; (&#34;We will do nothing for scammers&#34;). I remember seeing people protesting here, but had no idea why, being a non-Dutch speaker. According to what I&#39;ve since found online, the gentleman named in the signs appears to be Marc Leutscher, a property speculator whose name looms large in squatting demonology.
SPRINGTIME IN AMSTERDAM: MY TRIBUTE TO WALLY TAX (1948-2005)
by Words & Images By Ralph Heibutzki
Jun 19, 2012

SPRINGTIME IN AMSTERDAM

Easter Weekend (1994):
Another bank holiday for Londoers,
A good excuse for me to blitz the Continent
by bus. Whatever.

I started Saturday on the Prins Hendrikstraat
     where the hookers are always in season
     & the air is thick with the ashes
     of stillborn promises
Falling from pimps' lips.  But I had other ideas.

I'd spent a long, frustrating afternoon
Searching for the hotel window
     where Chet Baker (insert occupation:
     "doomed junkie trumpeter extraordinaire")
Jumped to his final reward

& kissed the pavement in '88.
Either nobody knew nor cared to tell me.
For a city that rejoices in its reputation as the drug capital of Europe

I found this a little (bit) disconcerting.
I turned toward a cafe,
     & then a long, bony finger
     tapped my shoulder:
"I read your mind, my friend.

We do not give up our secrets here so easily.
     & there he stood, a slim, spider figure
     looking vaguely: a long way
     from the Dutch Beat Boom God
Who raised so much hell with his comrades in dissipation,

The Outsiders...from '65 to '69,
But yes, through the whisper of a beard
& jet black hair framing that oval face,
I knew it could be...the one 'n' only

Outsiders' lead singer, Wally Tax,
     "The Entertainer" himself.
     He spread his hands in an apology of sorts,
     & asked: "Can I trouble you for 20 guilders?
My local is not so far from here."

I shrugged.  "Sure, Wally, but...why do you need
     anything from me?  All those '70s hits,
     'Miss Wonderful,' 'It's Raining In My Heart,'
Surely, you must have saved a little bit..."
"All gone," he shrugged.  "Long gone."

We continued down the Prins Hendrikstraat.
I heard the hue & cry go up:
     "Live sex show at 7:30!
     Hurry, hurry, babysitting is provided!"
We kept on walking.  Wally pointed vaguely

off in the distance, and clipped a cigarette
in his mouth: "It's too far from here, but...I like
to walk my dog every day, past the tax building,
and let it take a shit there."

Again, he smiled, & we shared a laugh:
"My name is Tax, so I figure, it fits.
     I'm not so young anymore, but..."
     A sigh.  "I do whatever I can
     to shake things up."

I wanted to say something more
But I could only stammer:
    "So tell me, Wally...why do we treat
     our Beat heroes like you?
Why do we wait until after they're gone

to acknowledge whatever work they've done?"
He took a long cigarette from his cigarette,
cocked his head, & finally, he smiled: "Very simple, my friend.
It's because we don't look back."

Just then, the shadow of the corner convenience store
     swallowed him up.  I wanted an autograph
     but he had already gone
     leaving me with myself & my idle memories:
Springtime in Amsterdam.

P.S. If you happen to visit the grave (plot 37, De Nieuwe Ooster,
Amsterdam), look past the birth and death dates: "Wally Tax:
1948-2005"...walk around...and you'll see the two words that put
my memories into place: "Outsider.  Entertainer."

CODA #1
I
have only been to Amsterdam once, as this piece notes...my loss, though it's not for laziness that I haven't made it back yet!  Trust me, it's on the list.  What sticks with me, even now, is that I hit the road during a major holiday weekend, without a hint of where I'd be sleeping that night...

...but eventually, after a great deal of scrabbling, scrounging around and stair-climbing -- one of my other lasting memories, as every flight seemed to wind  into the clouds -- I finally managed to find a hostel that was right next to a whorehouse.  But that made sense, especially when the management admitted, in the middle of the night, about half a dozen more stragglers...

...who had to settle for mattresses on the floor, because there were already a couple dozen of us trying, against all odds, to grab some semblance of sleep!  That's the atmosphere I wanted to salute in this piece, which appeared in The Chiron Review (Autumn 2011).. Having just done an Outsiders entry, I figured it only makes sense to post this particular piece here, providing a bit more exposure than it garnered on its first go-round.

My acqaintance with Wally's music kick-started the inspiration that I needed.  I don't want to say too much more about all the themes running through these lines, which are for your interpretation alone -- and it's best left that way.  We live in an age where everything is predigested, pre-explained and prepackaged before you get your hands on it.  However, not everything lends itself to that approach, and if you've read this far, I reckon that you agree.

I'd also be remiss
if I didn't mention Tom Krabbendam, the Outsiders' former rhythm guitarist, who also died in February, aged 63, in Groningen -- where he'd worked as a miller in recent years, a lifetime away from the madness that he'd unleashed with his former band, yet without whom the next  waves of out-of-control recklessness would have been unimaginable. 

This piece is for him, too, and anybody who raises hell with nothing more than an amp and a guitar -- who has the courage to go from a whisper to a scream against the tides of social convention, driven on by a different kind of drummer that only they can hear. Godspeed, and God Bless.

CODA #2: "SPRINGTIME IN AMSTERDAM" TAB
(Special thanks to Andrew Wang for this transcription)
Solo instruments include: piano, saxophone, violin

Intro: Am-A6 repeated with "ragtime" piano sound

Verse: Am/Dm7/E7/D7
F7/E7/F7

Chorus: A A7
Springtime In Amsterdam

Solo: A-Dm7/E7/D7
F7/E7/F7/A

Verse: Am/Dm7/E7/D
F/E7/F

Chorus: A A7
Springtime in Amsterdam 

Andrew: Here's my take, hope it helps. The solo's pretty close to the verse progressions. 

RETRIEVED FROM A PHONE BOOTH... TRAFALGAR SQUARE, OUTER PERIMETER: POLICE MOVE TO CONTAIN THE REMAINING DEMONSTRATORS CROWD WATCHES FIRES SET NEAR THE SOUTH AFRICAN EMBASSY (TOP LEFT CORNER) GETTING NEAR TWILIGHT: A LULL IN THE ACTION RENAULT SHOP, COVENT GARDEN, EXHIBIT A RENAULT SHOP, COVENT GARDEN, EXHIBIT B ...AND EXHIBIT C: THE MORNING AFTER
BEWARE THE IDES OF MARCH: MARGARET THATCHER & THE POLL TAX RIOTS (3/31/90): PT. II: THE BATTLE OF TRAFALGAR SQUARE
by By Ralph Heibutzki (Words & Images)
Apr 9, 2012

The opening line from my journal says it all: “I've just seen the real 'White Riot,' right in the West End...” (10 p.m. Sunday, 3/31/90)

As the cliché goes, I remember what I'd been doing when the riots broke out that Saturday. I'd gone out for lunch, done a little grocery shopping, and by 2 p.m.-ish, set about relaxing in my second-floor bedroom...going plunk, plunk, plunk on the old Magnum bass.

Normally, I spent a good portion of my Saturdays at Camden Market, but not this time – probably because I just wanted it quiet, for a change. I often went out to avoid the crowding in my hostel, where three people to a room was not unusual. Hardly anybody was around, so it made sense to capitalize, in this case.

Just then, one of my roommates came charging into the room – a born-again Christian who planned on pursuing a financial industry career, couldn't have been more different from yours truly – and told me what was happening just around the corner, on Tottenham Court Road.

Essentially, there'd been a big demonstration in Trafalgar Square. But things had gone horribly wrong, pitched battles were breaking out between cops and picketers, while looting and property damage were spiraling out of control.

I pondered this news for 30 seconds, grabbed my Pentax camera, and ran off downstairs, then outside, and right into the chaos. I was a journalism major, so what other response made sense? As I wrote later:

“All the words of the first Clash album were ringing in my head as I walked down Tottenham Court and Charing Cross Road to see if any hardcore protesters hadn't called it quits in Trafalgar Square.

“I was taking photos as I went, and I quickly realized hat my camera was a passport to safety, because the cops didn't bother me as I snapped photos of the all-encompassing chaos around...smashed shop fronts, overturned garbage bins, looted shops, and overturned, burned-out cars. Some sections near the West End theaters were completely cordoned off (unless you had a ticket, you couldn't get in).”

Making my way back onto Charing Cross Road, via a side street, I spotted two cars, “completely burned out and gutted, one overturned,” I wrote in my journal.
“Another guy whose back windshield was smashed in kept waving people away from his car, saying, 'Haven't they done enough, mate? Haven't they?'”

Then it was off to London's favored protest site, to see what was happening – by now, it was around 4:30 p.m. Only a couple hours ago, between 180,000 and 250,000 people crammed Trafalgar' Square's confines, as part of a rally organized by the All-Britain Anti-Poll Tax Federation. (Police estimates put the numbers at 200,000.)

The majority of protesters had departed, but several thousand remained on the scene, restless for some kind of action – of what sort, I couldn't immediately tell, until I saw movement stirring from the southern end of Trafalgar Square, and down Whitehall...towards the epicenter of Thatcher's power:

“I had one anxious moment when the Trafalgar Square throng, those [still] assembled, chanted: 'Downing Street! Downing Street!', and I walked a cautious distance behind them, while the assembled riot vans tore off in that direction.

“As I crossed the street, I saw a phalanx of riot shields already meeting the protestors, who overturned metal barricades. I ran, then stopped myself and managed to get ahead of the mob before the police cordoned off the streets.”

Actually, I found people lining up outside a small theater –
of all the times to catch a show, I marveled – so I simply walked up the small flight of stairs, as if to join them. I watched the protesters run, with the cops hot on their heels, and – once they'd rumbled a safe distance away – retook my place on Charing Cross Road.

That was enough for me: I decided to get back home, before things got too heavy – with a couple of STUFF THE POLL TAX banners under my arm, and the various Militant print materials that I'd scooped up off the pavement.

I kept my distance from any large groups, though I made a couple of strategic detours on the long walk back home – such as a Renault showroom in Covent Garden, where every car sported a smashed-in window, panel, or headlight.

This is what I recorded at the scene:
“I talked briefly with a man who said he'd supported Labourr, but called the violence obscene, as he shook his head no, and said, 'I detest Thatcher...but this just isn't the way.' I agreed, but I waved my camera around, to indicate my real reason for being out there.”

As I recall, it took a good hour to get back home on my own power – but, in the face of such a heavy police presence, I figured that public transport wasn't an option. Around 6-6:30 p.m., I finally made it back to Store Street. Most of the major action seemed to have wound down, though police versus protester clashes continued into 3 a.m., the newspapers stated.

My landlord could sense what had happened, saying, “This is the England you've always read about.” Ironically, the target of all the anger hadn't even been in the neighborhood; Thatcher had been attending a Conservative Party conference in Cheltenham, where the poll tax was expected to top the agenda.

Thatcher joined longtime Labour opponent, Neil Kinnock, and the media in condemning the riots, amid dismissive headlines of “Rent-A-Mob.” Needless to say, reactions among those who'd gone to Trafalgar Square – including my new circle of ULU friends, and coworkers – were rather different.

At St. Martin-in-the-Fields, the Anglican church on Trafalgar's northeastern corner, I watched police officers lash out with nightsticks against people who were only carrying picket signs and banners – striking with windmilled fury, left and right, until the intended targets gave up, and crumpled to the ground.

Back at work Monday, the discussion ran hot and angry with anecdotes of police cars being driven into the crowd – and mounted cavalry charges, when people didn't clear out quickly enough for their liking – which undoubtedly triggered the scaffold poles, wooden staves and other debris hurled back in their general direction.

According to several coworkers who'd witnessed the day's events, many of the injured had been trying to get out of the demonstration, only to have their escape routes blocked by police cordons, mounted horses, and security barriers.

Many of these things happened before my arrival, but – judging by the police charge that I did observe, the one designed to sweep away the demonstrators from Thatcher's Downing Street residence – it's astonishing that the injury toll didn't climb even higher.

CODA
In the end, the greatest damage didn't occur to the property, but to Thatcher's own standing, as I recorded in my journal:

“I've never seen so much broken glass in one place...the face of people's anger is real, and when unleashed, its force is terrifying. Somehow, I tell myself, nobody felt the Chancellor [of the Exchequer, John Major, who replaced Thatcher as prime minister] had been nice to them, nor do they buy the line that their Labour cousins are overspending.

"By tomorrow morning, that face will effectively have been whitewashed, but somehow, I'm not sure it can help Thatcher too much. Unlike Reagan, her policies have made her personally unpopular.”

In April 1990, I returned home: my six-month stay was up, and I couldn't find a clever way of extending it. However, there was no mistaking that Thatcher's invincible aura had crumbled forever. The nonpayment campaigns had begun gathering steam, too; as more people burned payment books, demanded court hearings or dumped buckets of urine on collectors, it became obvious that the poll tax's days were numbered.

From the Conservatives' standpoint, the confrontational personality that had defined '80s Britain now amounted to a political liability. However, it took seven more months for Thatcher to fall, this time, due to another leadership challenge, from Michael Heseltine – whose show of support (152 votes) was sufficient to force a second ballot.

After vowing to fight for her job, Margaret Thatcher changed her mind, and withdrew into history – leaving Downing Street in tears, so the papers said, as John Major, the unassuming former Chancellor of the Exchequer, took over – an outcome that my coworkers never have imagined. How many times had I heard them say,
“She can only be defeated in a general election”?

The government abandoned the poll tax in 1991. Britons would now pay a council tax that didn't take their income into account – but did consider their property's value, effectively restoring the old rates system under a different name. Unlike the poll tax, the taxpayer's ability to pay became part of the equation under the new measure

In the end, Thatcher fell prey to ego: like any leader who holds power for a long time, the Iron Lady had grown arrogant, remote and detached from the public that she claimed to love – yet remained bound and determined to cram an unpopular policy down her nation's collective throat, critics be damned.

As the Arab Spring of 2011 showed, leaders who take such tactics – whether they are elected, or not – do so at their own peril. How well that lesson sank in for the established political order remains debatable; over the years, other riots have scarred the British consciousness, and beyond, providing proof – if anybody truly needs it – of the old cliché that history repeats itself.

But for those who observed – or fought in – the disturbance known as “The Battle of Trafalgar Square” may have a bigger point in mind: when leaders stop listening to their nation, and turn a tin ear toward its collective suffering, the slope between loss of legitimacy, and inability to govern, is slippery indeed, and once that foothold is lost...it's impossible to climb back upward again.

EXHIBIT B, CHARING CROSS ROAD (3/31/90) OUTSIDE MACARI'S MUSIC SHOP, TAKE I OUTSIDE MACARI'S MUSIC SHOP, TAKE II EXHIBIT C: EN ROUTE TO TRAFALGAR SQUARE (3/31/90) EXHIBIT D: EN ROUTE TO TRAFALGAR SQUARE (3/31/90)
BEWARE THE IDES OF MARCH: MARGARET THATCHER & THE POLL TAX RIOTS (3/31/90): PT I: THE AUTUMN OF DISCONTENT
by By Ralph Heibutzki (Words & Images)
Apr 8, 2012

Amid the talk about Meryl Streep's performance in The Iron Lady, now seems like a good time to revisit its subject, Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, and the event credited with hastening her departure from the international stage – the London Poll Tax Riots (March 31, 1990).

Few figures polarized the population so vehemently, yet fewer still proved so easy to demonize. This tendency is often chalked up to Thatcher's pursuit of numerous divisive policies – from launching the Falklands War, to her brutish response against the miners' strike, and aggressive privatization of gas, oil, transport and water resources, among other factors.

For me, a letter from the Militant newspaper (“Poll Tax Victim”: March 30, 1990), states the case well enough. The writer recounts the story of an 80-year-old Manchester woman's financial worries: “She lived alone and was worried about how much she would be left to live on once the poll tax had been taken out of her pension. Nurses at the hospital said she was so scared and bewildered that she took a massive drug overdose.”

Given Militant's role in coordinating poll tax resistance, I'd expect people to have questioned this scenario (since the writer doesn't clarify how she got her information). However, such comments show why Thatcher loomed so large as a popular bogey – one who'd been in business for a decade when I arrived at the University of London (ULU), as a clerk, in October 1989.

All the protest marches, Red Wedge tours and riots hadn't managed to ensure a Labour Party triumph in 1987 – when Thatcher and her Conservative Party won its third straight national election. The Iron Lady's run seemed fated to continue as long as she wanted the job, though opponents kept searching for chinks in her armor.

That search proved elusive. My arrival at ULU coincided with another strike, this one by ambulance crews – to whom Thatcher responded, with the single-mindedness that defined so much of her career, by getting the army to replace them. The strike would drag on into the spring of 1990, without any notable concessions on the government's part.

However, a few cracks in the Iron Lady's unflappable facade began showing. In December 1989, Sir Anthony Meyer – an obscure Member of Parliament (MP), who felt marginalized for his pro-European views – launched what he called his “stalking horse challenge” to Thatcher's leadership of the party.

Although Meyer had no illusions of winning, he assumed that more glamrous peers – such as former Defense and Environment Minister Michael Heseltine – would take over his role on future ballots, should any be needed. Thatcher defeated Meter by a 314-33 margin, but once abstentions and spoiled ballots entered the equation, the number of non-supporters rose to 60 MPs.

Many observers attributed the result to the rollout of the Poll Tax (although the Conservatives tended to use “Community Charge,” a softer-sounding, if neo-Orwellian term). Proponents claimed the measure would ensure more consistent funding of local government, which – from what I gathered, in talking with people – had remained unresolved since the '70s and '80s.

The poll tax represented a massive change from the rates system – which only required one payment per household, based on the property's estimated rental value. Now, every adult inhabitant of a property, 18 and up, would cough up this new tax, which made no provision for anyone's ability to pay.

What's more, rates varied greatly from area to area, depending on how much support that the local councils received from the government. Ironically, the government introduced the poll tax to Scotland – where Thatcher never won a popular vote – in April 1989, with Britain and Wales to follow in 1990-91.

The poll tax also didn't apply to Northern Ireland – a recognition, perhaps, of the Irish Republican Army's near-successful 1984 assassination of Thatcher? My coworkers and I weren't sure, but we assumed that Belfast's colleges and universities would see an upsurge in applications.

Nonpayment meant prosecution, but many people protested by voting – literally – with their feet. Landlords didn't always know how many tenants lived at a property, or when someone replaced them, so it was easy to disappear before the bills came due.

Collecting the tax proved nightmarish in cities with large mobile populations, such as college and university students. As the papers told us, this situation quickly resulted in rooms stuffed with thousands of unprocessed, undelivered notices.

Those who couldn't hide, or felt unwilling to risk outright defiance, made do with various schemes. A Cornish man, Frederick Trull, claimed the poll tax was illegal, because it hadn't been approved by his home county's Stannary Parliament – which last met in 1753.

The resulting hullabaloo enabled Trull to start selling shares – for one pound each – in something called the Royal Cornish Consols United Tin Mines Cost Book Company; by March 1990, he'd taken 1.25 million share applications from people desperate to avoid the new tax.

On March 22, 1990, the Department of Trades and Industry shut down the company and froze its assets, saying that it wasn't registered, and Trull had no busines handling investments, anyway. Only a couple weeks remained until the new tax took effect nationwide, amid a growing national outcry; just how would the government respond?

The answer came on March 31, 1990...when all hell broke loose in Trafalgar Square.

"NAZI PUNKS FUCK OFF!": ORIGINAL VINYL I imagine this will probably set you back a few bucks, if you try finding one on eBay... :-) Issued on Subterranean Records, which was originally supposed to put out the Dead Kennedys&#39; IN GOD WE TRUST INC. 12-inch EP, copies of this single still fetch $10 and upward...though it&#39;s not terribly hard to find. First released in 1981, and put together by Dead Kennedys vocalist Jello Biafria, LET THEM EAT JELLYBEANS features a different take of &#34;Nazi Punks Fuck Off!&#34; than the single. According to Alternative Tentacles, the album remains in limbo, because the label couldn&#39;t get the OK to use Black Flag&#39;s track, &#34;Police Story&#34; (which features Dez Cadena on vocals).  <br /> <br />Featuring the likes of bad Brains, the Circle Jerks, DOA, the Feederz, Geza X, the Offs and the Feederz, this is one of the best comps out there...hunt down a copy, if you can!   <br /> <br />Paraphrasing a saying from Marie Antoinette, the title refers to President Ronald Reagan&#39;s preference for jellybeans, which were widely reported to be his favorite candy. As far as I know, this is the only place where you can find &#34;Serena Dank (Go Away),&#34; a one-fingered &#34;tribute&#34; to the infamous Parents of Punkers founder by Suburban Menace, who came from Canada...and no, I don&#39;t have a copy. I saw quite a few movies here at 1470 Lake Drive SE (Grand Rapids, MI), including A CLOCKWORK ORANGE, and THE DECLINE OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION -- when I could hitch a ride with somebody over there!  Today, the Uptown Assembly of God occupies the old site.
PHIL DONAHUE & THE DECLINE OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION: PUNKSPLOITATION FOR FUN 'N' PROFIT
Mar 7, 2012

Phil Donahue turned 76 last month (December 21). The man credited with creating “tabloid TV" hasn't held a regular gig since 2005, when MSNBC yanked his last show – either because he opposed the Iraq War (Phil's version), or his ratings lacked the candlepower of yore (everybody else's).

In July 1981, The Decline of Western Civilization gatecrashed art houses and midnight flicks across the land – led by its iconic poster image of Germs lead singer, Darby Crash, who never lived to see his big screen debut. (Crash died via deliberate drug overdose on December 7, 1980, only to be overshadowed the next day, by a certain J. Lennon's murder...you know that story.)

However I didn't get to see the fuss for myself until early '83. Living in West Michigan, we didn't entertain any debate about what constituted proper music. My Top 40-driven classmates had enough trouble understanding Elvis Costello, or Deborah Harry, let alone someone like Darby Crash – lying flat on his back, down for the count, oblivious to the chaos whirring around him...such as those adoring fans squiggling all over his body with Magic Markers (or “Magick Markers,” perhaps, in light of all those murmurings about punk's satanic connections)...see what I mean?

At any rate, Decline triggered a mini- punksploitation wave, including Fear's legendary “Saturday Night Live” appearance (Halloween '81) – instigated by John Belushi, of course – and laughable punk-related episodes on “CHiPS” (“Battle Of The Bands,” aired 1/31/82), and “Quincy, ME” (“Next Stop, Nowhere,” aired 12/1/82). (Interestingly enough, all three were NBC shows. For those who enjoy keeping score, the TV punk bands were dubbed Pain, and Mayhem, respectively...a fair indication of the mentality at work, eh?)

Phil did his part for punksploitation, too – knocking heads in his Chicago studio enclave with every sort of margin-walker imaginable. You name it, he had it, from crossdressers, to faith healers, neo-Nazis...and yes, punk rockers, which brings us back where we started.

Clips of Phil's '84 and '86 sitdowns with the hardcore tribe have popped up on Youtube, but not this occasion, documented on a hissy C-60 cassette tape (not Maxell or TDK, but some crappy off-brand, Cycles) that came into my hands. The date is given as 6/28/82, which may (or may not) be accurate. I don't know if this copy documents a rerun, or an original broadcast.

On this occasion, Phil referees between a group of avowed punks – how many are onstage, I'm not sure – and their uncomprehending antagonists, including Parents of Punkers founder Serena Dank, who grabbed her 15 minutes' worth during this sweater-clad, investment-obsessed decade as some kind of self-appointed expert on the genre.

Along the way, Phil treats the audience to a performance clip from Decline – in this case, “I Just Want Some Skank,” by the Circle Jerks – and pops the inevitable question about its depiction of slamdancing. “The dances are stoned, or otherwise mind-altered – throw in a little music, a couple of macho personalities, and you've got an inflammable situation. True?” Not so, the punks retort: “They're anti-drug. They're anti-drunk, lady – they're not into that.”

But Dank's not having any of it, claiming the scene attracts young people “that just don't know how to digest the message.” As Exhibit A, Dank cites “Robbie,” a teen who's apparently no longer interested in punking up, yet seems unable to muster more than a cursory explanation of motivated her in the first place: “I don't like being bored, and hanging around these people that I didn't like, and doing stupid things that I didn't like.”

Phil soon changes the subject to lyrics. Unfortunately, Phil chooses to quote from “Revenge,” and “Spraypaint The Walls” (Black Flag), plus “Nazi Punks Fuck Off” (Dead Kennedys), with all the solemnity of Winston Churchill addressing radio listeners during the London Blitz.

I had a writing teacher who did the same thing, and it gave me a headache, between my bouts of yawning – but that's exactly how Phil chooses to intone the opening salvo of “Nazi Punks”: “Punk ain't no religious cult (BIG PAUSE)...Punk means thinking for yourself (BIG PAUSE, BIG PAUSE, YET AGAIN)....You ain't hardcores 'cause you spike your hair (BIG PAUSE, DEAD AIR)...When a jock still lives inside your head” (SHORTER PAUSE, SILENCE).

However, Phil's deliberate mangling of the title as “Nazi Punk” gets him in trouble – since the song lyrics are an emphatic broadside against Nazis – which prompts a furious barrage of cross-talk from the punks: “NO, IT'S NOT! THAT'S NOT THE NAME!” (The Dead Kennedys' label, Alternative Tentacles, also references this incident on its website's biography page.)

Unruffled, Phil protests that he can't drop the F-bomb on TV – even it's part of a song – and, hence, that's why he shortened the title. So why not pick a song title that he can utter, without any problem?

Because, like any bigtime TV host, Phil enjoys playing every possible end against the middle; that's why roughly a third of this show gets devoted to the issue of his guests' appearance. Naturally, the audience gleefully weighs in on that score (“If it were my child, he wouldn't live in my house looking like that, that is for sure”), when not indulging in the odd bit of moralistic finger-wagging (“just be a good citizen, help other people, and be a good Christian – you're accomplishing nothing”).

Phil piles on, too. After conceding that his spiky-haired subjects might have legitimate grudges against a society “filled with corruption, a lot of poor people, a lot of drinking, a lot of injustice,” he goes for the jugular: “What you've done is make yourselves so bizarre, that you are – in effect – saying, 'Now, look, see how I look! Do you love me, anyway? Do you love me now?'”

Sufficiently warmed up, Uncle Phil further claims that his guests find “some sort of comfort in your own absurdity,” and “getting some joy out of making this corrupt society angry at you” – this, mind you, from the man who wore a skirt over his suit (however briefly) during a show about crossdressing!

The disconnect is enough to make a 16-year-old punk identified as “Jeff” – who assumes the thankless task of designated spokesman's role, as this show goes on, and on, and on – concede as much. However, he maintains that such gestures became necessary, “because the punks were sick of this whole hippie thing by the '70s, right?” he says. “The way it deteriorated in the '70s was, [by] not caring, and doing nothing.”

As capsule summaries go, that's a fair expression of the hardcore generation's distaste for the hippies-cum-boomers who felt so comfortable judging them – though, to be fair, Phil redeems himself (somewhat) in mid-show. After a woman voices puzzlement about why punks wouldn't feel compelled to fight for their country, he recalls the country's failure to question the Vietnam War.

“That's the kind of thing that'll get you 57,000 young men coming home in plastic zipper bags,” Phil warns. “So they [the punks] want you to think for yourself, and not be such a puppet, and kind of knee-jerk responsive person to a government that may or may not call a war in its own best interest.”

The line draws some thunderous applause – providing an interesting rebuttal to those “morning in America” ads that defined Ronald Reagan's successful re-election to the presidency, only two years later – and provides one of the few real meaningful insights to emerge from this particular “Donahue” episode.

However, insights were in short supply around this time. I wound up seeing Decline with a female friend of mine, at the long-defunct Eastown Theater, in Grand Rapids – which meant getting up around 9:30 a.m. (or so), on a Friday, to catch our bus from the GVSU campus. Unlike me, my friend wasn't really into punk, but – like yours truly – always up for an entertaining experience.

We had to catch the first matinee showing, because the last bus hissed back to Grand Valley at 4:30 p.m. This timeline ensured an abbreviated experience, to put it mildly, but we managed.

Back at the GVSU cafeteria, we tried to explain what we'd seen. I brought up Darby's big Magic Marker-clad moment, only to have one of our tablemates tartly dismiss our report with a flick of his sweater-clad collar: “They're just the dregs of society!”

“Excuse me?” I ventured.

The answer didn't change, with each word repeated for emphasis: “They're...just...the dregs of society!”

I gave up trying to explain anymore, and went back to whatever was hanging off my fork.

My mind flashed back to a comment uttered near the end of Phil's televised punk rock run-in: “Why should people have to conform to everything, you know? What's the point about being the same as everybody else?” Looking back, that strikes me as a fair comment about my Eastown experience.

There we sat, my friend and I, among roughly eight to 10 fellow travelers – some looking like hippies or punks, and others, not so much – united, if only temporarily, by our shared desire for an off-the-beaten-track experience.

A guy that everyone knew as Rainbow took our tickets, which allowed us the privilege of staring at a single screen. We felt like the last of a dying breed, huddled together in a 523-seat room that had definitely seen its share of better days.

We wondered where the hell everybody else went, and if something like this might happen again...proof positive, for anyone needing it, that those cynical freewheeling '70s were finally dead and buried.

Not long afterwards, the Eastown closed; from what I gather, it's now home to a church (Uptown Assembly of God). But we still have those memories, along with the music – and that Magic Marker-clad guy frozen on the poster.

As the old cliché goes, “You had to be there.” But, given a choice between seeing Darby go through his paces once more...and another finger-wagging lecture from somebody kitted out in a sweater...I know which experience I'd pick in a heartbeat.

TONY ROCKING A HOYNE-A-QUE, CIRCA 2002 TONY AFTER ROCKING A HOYNE-A-QUE, CIRCA 2002 CHAIRMAN RALPH, ANTHONY SALAZAR FAMILY BENEFIT (THE DARKROOM, CHICAGO: 6/24/05) X-RAYS OF A SKELETON CD COVER ORIGINAL TWIN COVER ART (JOHN HILLA) DOIN' THAT PLAYIN' OUT THING (ABOVE)/MORE ORIGINAL TWIN ARTWORK (BELOW) ROCKIN' WITH SISTER KATE (MARCH 1982)
ANTHONY SALAZAR: GONE, BUT NEVER FORGOTTEN...
Jun 7, 2011

My View: By Ralph Heibutzki
Late Friend Taught Editor More Than Chords
(Editor's Note: This column originally appeared on 6/30/05 in The Coldwater Daily Reporter, a GateHouse Media affilate.)

I've been dealing with the news for a month now, but writing this column hasn't been any easier.

On May 24, I lost one of my closest friends, Tony Salazar, to complications from AVM (arterio-venous malformation).

At 39, he took his final breaths in Chicago's Rush University Medical Center, amid the architecture, atmosphere and people that he loved.

AVM is a fancy way of saying, “abnormal blood vessels in the brain” – something Tony didn't learn until his first seizure, and diagnosis, in 2003.

Our last phone conversation had been in April.

I spent most of those 90 minutes reading out portions of a new Clash book that I'd just bought. Business as usual, since we were committed music fans and guitar players.

Eventually, Tony kept firing so many questions at me, I said, “Look, I probably won't need this for another couple months. Why don't I drop it in the mail, and you can send it back?”

“Sounds good to me,” he said.

I never got the chance.

I wound up finishing that book in somebody's car, on the way to the hospital – where we'd been called to say to our goodbyes to him.

About a week before his death, Tony suffered another seizure, while he was giving some kids a guitar lesson.

He never woke up, and his diagnosis never improved.

The hardest part was talking about someone I'd known for 23 years in the past tense – before it was an established fact, before he got taken off life support.

At the same time, I couldn't help but marvel about where Tony was heading.

He'd gotten laid off from some go-nowhere market research job, which had freed him to barnstorm open mike nights around the Chicago area as a high-energy, acoustic solo performer.

He'd released two CDs, plus a single, and was starting to get some paying gigs.

He was even talking about traveling to other states, and forming his own record label – things neither of us imagined when we started working together in the '80s.

Without Tony, I'd never have picked up a guitar; when we met in the fall of '82, I envisioned myself as some kind of alternative poet, with no major musical ambitions.

However, our mutual affection for Britain's original punk rock scene – the Clash, Damned and Sex Pistols – dictated that we form a band along those lines.

With characteristic breeziness, Tony suggested that I play bass: “Don't worry, it's like guitar – you've got two less strings to worry about!” (Note to non-musicians: the bass has four strings.)

So I duly took the stage, and Tony painstakingly wrote out chords and basslines for me, on reams of paper.

Before long, we were firing song ideas back and forth – many of which remain in my trick bag today.

One of our first attempts was “Kill Yourself To Rock,” our blow against the '80s “hair band” metal empire.

Funnily enough, I've just started playing that song again, after a 12-year hiatus. Amazing how these things work out, isn't it?

In 1996, the cycle repeated itself. I'd followed Tony to Chicago, where I was taking up the guitar – this time, of the six-string variety.

Armed with a chord sheet from “Circus” magazine, of all things, I started hacking around on some kiddie model that I'd rescued from my parents' basement.

Whenever that got too frustrating, I'd hit Tony's apartment, so I could fool around on his electric guitar; I couldn't afford one at the time.

Bless his heart, he never complained, and once again, took the time to show me chords, how to approach rhythm, and – most crucially – how to tune the damn thing!

Tony was the most schooled musician I've known, but – unlike a lot of those guys – made it seem fun, whether you made a buck off your talent, or not.

From Tony, I also learned that you could play music right now, without waiting for somebody's blessing. Or, as he once said about overly political bands: “When the jams stop coming, that's when I'm out of here.”

Knowing what Tony could have accomplished makes his death especially cruel; revisiting the memories you've stored away is no substitute for the person struck down in their prime.

I also absorbed plenty of life lessons from Tony, too. Since his passing, I've redoubled my vows not to screw around, because you aren't guaranteed tomorrow. To wake up is a privilege.

Nor will I forget Tony's resolve – which will help me through the tough times, when people put down the songs you play or the directions you take.

The joke's on them. They'll only accomplish a fraction of what Tony packed into 39 years.

He died doing exactly what he wanted to do, when he wanted to do it – how many people can say that?

Guess what? I'm not waiting for anybody to catch up.

It's nothing personal. After all my experiences with Tony, I just can't forget what I know, and I can't settle for less.

AND THE COMPROMISE WAS NINE: I REMEMBER RON ASHETON (1/09/09)
Nov 30, 2009
Like everyone in the protopunk musical community, I'm saddened by this week's reports of Stooges guitarist Ron Asheton's passing: my heart goes out to his family, band cohorts and friends at this most difficult time.

I had the pleasure of interviewing Ron on several occasions between 1993 and 2000 for a major GOLDMINE retrospective ("Night Of The DumDum Boys: Revisiting The Stooges": March 1995), and profiles that appeared in VINTAGE GUITAR ("And The Compromise Was Nine: Ron Asheton Revisits The Funhouse": January 2000), and GUITAR PLAYER.

I also interviewed Ron for his impressions of the MC5 ("Edge Of The Switchblade: To Hell And Back With The MC5": DISCoveries, December 1995), and the year of 1974, among other related projects. We always had a good time whenever we talked.

In any band, there's always somebody who takes on the historian's role: Ron definitely fit that to a "T". I never ceased to be amazed by his crystal-clear recall of so many pivotal events in his life from 30-odd years ago. Normally, when you write articles, people's memories tend to get hazy, and they begin pulling the truth like taffy, until it's unrecognizable.

Suffice to say, I never had that problem with Ron, whose input made my GOLDMINE article one of the most rewarding exercises I've ever had as a journalist -- especially since reliable information about the band was so hard to come by, and many of the shopworn legends were already being recycled with a reckless disregard for the folks who created the music.

Throughout all our conversations, Ron was gracious, unpretentious, and accessible -- although, as I'd discover, that last quality could have its limits.

Once, I remember Ron saying, "Hey, I got a call from the Mayor's Office today."

"What on earth for?" I asked.

It turned out that a group of French fans had sent Ron a package, care of Ann Arbor City Hall -- "because they said that they'd know how to find me!" he said, laughing.

Stooges fans could be a dedicated lot It wasn't the last time that I'd find out -- hence, the deep and breathy answering machine message left for the unwary freak caller who'd somehow stumbled onto Ron's number: "Yes...you have reached the Asheton residence...please...leave...a... message!"

My introduction to the Stooges came through FUNHOUSE (1970), during my first year of college. Nothing could have possibly prepared me for what barreled down my headphones, because this record came from such a different place than whatever I'd heard before.

I liked it, and wanted more, which put me in the minority aching to resurrect the band from its nether status. Don't forget, this was the '80s, when bigtime rock 'n' roll was busily hardening its collective arteries well past the point of return or redemption.

Calling yourself a Stooges fan gave other people a license to stare at you funny, or voice their disgust when they'd ask you to yank the record off...and, of course, the visceral fury of Ron's guitar was a big part of that equation. Punk rock's DNA would have been hell of a lot poorer, and more monochromatic, without his imprint.

Still, I take issue with those who've filed Ron neatly away under the category of "Mongolian barre chorder" -- can you think of three albums (THE STOOGES, FUNHOUSE, RAW POWER) that sound so totally different from one another? I rest my case.

The same goes for Ron's later projects, which are unfairly overlooked, but equally essential to understanding his playing style. My favorite non-Stooge moment would have to be his solo on "November 22, 1963" from the New Race live album (THE FIRST & THE LAST) -- right on the heels of that command, "Hit me, Ron!" If you don't get goosebumps after hearing it, well -- I can't fix that!

Of course, a lot of people trying to emulate the Stooge style missed the point, too, something that bemused -- and amused -- Ron to no end.

One time, I remember him telling me about getting a tape from some Kansas disciples who worked at a meatpacking plant, and wanted his seal of approval. "Well, how was it?" I asked.

"Oh, it was Godawful," Ron laughed. "But I didn't really want to tell 'em...they kept on calling and calling here for a few more months, and then they finally gave up."

As Ron himself pointed out, all sorts of music went into the Stooge blender: don't forget, this was a band that began its career by playing avante garde music on homemade instruments.

And that's before we even mention the likes of Ravi Shankar, and John Coltrane, as well as blues players like Albert and B.B. King, to whom Ron was introduced in his pre-Stooges Prime Movers days. As Ron told me for the VINTAGE GUITAR piece, "There's a great blues influence in the Stooges."

This eclecticism is an apt object lesson in an era when so much pressure is exerted to make everything look, sound and feel alike. The Stooges were always men out of time, which is the ultimate tribute, to me: nothing sounded like them at the time, and nothing does now.

Of course, nothing came easily in the Stooges, and I'm not surprised that it's taken three decades to assimilate their sound into popular culture. The biggest objection to the Stooges has always focused on their lyrical and musical simplicity-- which is like visiting a Chinese restaurant, asking why there aren't any hamburgers on the menu.

Given that dynamic, I'm equally unsurprised that the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame failed to embrace the Stooges during Ron's lifetime. Even so, I feel that the people's will matters a hell of a lot more than all these colorless, faceless "suits" who miss the boat without a whiff of shame or embarrassment.

The proof came in the reactions to the 2003 reunion. I was glad to see that Ron, Scott and Iggy finally got some recognition for all the blood and sweat they put into making that music leap, snarl and pounce to eat all comers -- "Search And Destroy," indeed!

Regardless of the ups and downs, Ron never gave up, and managed to keep his wicked sense of humor intact ("Hey, man, I don't read rock mags, I read GUN mags!") -- two qualities, in my mind, that are as important as the guitar playing that turned rock 'n' roll upside down for good.

The world is already a poorer place without Ron's wit and wisdom, but we'll have the energy and strength of his music to sustain us for the long run. For that alone, he deserves our thanks...and will always have my vote.
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